Page 6
I follow him over, wrinkling my nose as a familiar stench drifts in on the breeze. Rot and decay. Flesh spoiled, blood saturating the soil underfoot.
Alex opens the gate and gestures to the carcasses of two ewes sprawled at odd angles in the corner of the paddock. “This is the third time in as many weeks I’ve come out to a scene like this. There have been rumours down in the village of wild dogs roaming the moors. I suppose they must have caught the scent.”
Something in my gut pulls tight, but I keep my expression smooth. “It’s possible. Do you mind if I examine them?”
He shrugs. “Not much left of them to examine, but go ahead. I’ll fetch you a rag and some water.”
I wait until his footsteps fade behind me, then move cautiously towards the savaged carcasses. Small black flies crawl over the bloodied wool, flitting into the air as I approach. This close, the reek of death burns my throat, and I blink away the water in my eyes as I lower myself to the grass.
The ewe stares blankly ahead with a lifeless gaze. Its woollen coat is stained red, stray tufts littering the paddock. It doesn’t take me long to examine the signs of the attack. The creature’s throat has been ripped out, its belly carved open. Glistening entrails spill from its stomach, some of them shredded to ribbons, others chewed.
Alex’s assessment doesn’t seem far off the mark. Everything about the state of the gutted ewe points to an animal attack. Perhaps it was wild dogs, like he guessed.
I move over to the other carcass, my knees damp from the morning dew and blood in the grass. This ewe is as mutilated as the first, and it’s not long before my arms are slick with its juices as I work to examine its wounds. Most of them are identical—deep gouges and gruesome tears. I picture the snapping jaws, the frenzied hunger.
Wild dogs, I tell myself. It makes sense. It’s the most reasonable explanation. But something gives me pause. I fear there is a far more dangerous predator stalking the moors, casting its shadow over Caelfeld.
The scruff around the ewe’s neck is soaking and red, and I spread the wool apart to inspect the flesh underneath.
That’s when my heart stops.
“Here you go.” Alex appears behind me, a bucket between his strong, weathered hands. He pulls a rag from his pocket and offers it to me, casting a troubled glance over the dead ewes. “It’ll be a lean winter if I lose any more of the flock. If there’s anything you can do…”
I wipe the sodden cloth over my arms, washing away the blood and intestinal fluids. The water in the pail is ice cold, but it’s not the temperature that’s making me shiver. Even as I scrub my skin raw, I don’t feel clean. Digging into these wretched carcasses has led me to something that will haunt me like a breath at my neck until I find the strength to face it.
I force the words out as steadily as I can. “Do you know of any dog rose growing nearby?”
Alex furrows his brow, then nods. “The hedgerows down by the road are thick with the stuff. Nasty thorns.”
“I suggest you transplant as much as you can around your paddock. Don’t leave any gaps.”
Something changes in his eyes. All at once, I see the fear and suspicion that has become so familiar to me over these last few years. The understanding that however I might appear, I am not one of them. I am the broken glass of a cracked mirror, the black cat that crosses their path.
“These are no ordinary wild dogs, then?” he asks, and I can’t help but baulk at the note of accusation in his voice, as if his misfortune is somehow my fault.
“No,” I tell him. “I’m afraid there’s nothing ordinary about any of this.”
I leave the bloodied rag in the pail and turn away before he can ask anything more. Better for him to protect his paddock with the dog rose and believe the worst thing out there is a pack of hell-cursed hounds.
But I know better. As I head back towards the village, I can’t get the image of the dead ewes out of my head. It isn’t the blood or the guts or the savagery that has left me shaken. It’s what I saw when I pulled back the red wool to expose the skin underneath.
Puncture wounds. Two deep, gaping holes I’d recognise anywhere.
Ever since I arrived in Caelfeld, I’ve known something wasn’t right. Now I understand why. A vampire is preying on these moors, and if the weight of the blood-inked letter in my pocket is anything to go by, I know exactly who he is.
4
I peel off my hunting leathers and lower myself into the steaming bath, letting out a hiss of painful satisfaction as the scalding water sears my skin. The young girl who filled the tub warned me to let it cool first, but I am in no mood to listen. I need to wash away the remnants of Oakhill Farm and the truth I discovered there.
Muted rumblings of music and chatter float up from the inn below, and I close my eyes and sink deeper. The stench of grime and sweat soon gives way to perfumed oils, surrounding me in a haze of lavender and heather. But even as the stiffness leaves my muscles, the tension in my neck remains.
Vampire.
Fear scuttles through me at the word, turning my blood cold despite the temperature of the water. Of all the vermin I have hunted, all the monsters I have slain, one still eludes me. One that I have lived in the shadow of every night for the past six years.
My fingers find the delicate chain around my neck, the silver hot against my skin. Lying against my bruised sternum is a gold ring, its single sapphire nestled amongst a bed of diamonds. It is the most precious thing I own, yet I can’t bear to look at it. I don’t remember the last time I took it off its chain.
The metal clasp comes apart easily. I slide the ring into my palm, forcing myself to look upon the gemstones. All at once, the grief I’ve tried so hard to bury rushes to the surface. I clench my hand around the ring and choke down the sobs, knowing that if I allow myself to weep, I will surely lose myself again.
